


Sear: Interlude

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Sear [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, First Person, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post HLV, Smut, They love each other, Top John, kind of brief fix it, sherlock POV, they sherlock is a girl's name each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John…” His name is an invocation, a prayer, one that has filled me with both strength and despair.  One that honestly, I’d never thought I’d say in his presence again, one I’d never thought I’d be able to say outside of moments alone, moments that would more than likely be my last.  If I’d known this, known this could be, I would have fought my way back, even if Mycroft’s (rather embarrassing) ploy hadn’t worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sear: Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock POV/first person. Please be kind. His mind is so hard.
> 
> Heh, I said "hard" in a porny fic note.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

John’s tongue tastes like cheap scotch and spearmint and the hint of my cigarette he nicked when he surprised me on the small fire escape of the secured flat. I have no idea how he convinced Mycroft to bring him here (Mycroft surely wasn’t the type to be swayed by numerous phone calls), but find myself increasingly unable to care about the how, because his tongue gliding over the roof of my mouth and emphasizing the _why_.

It’s surreal, unbelievable; none of my wildest fantasies could have possibly prepared me for the sensation of John, _my_ John, pressing me into a hard mattress, his small, perfect hands holding my face in place as his mouth plunders mine as if he were a man starving and I’m the only sustenance that will save him. My skin is on fire where he’s touching me, burning through my cotton shirt and trousers and his heavier jeans and hideous jumper. There’s too much between us, there’s always too much between us.

I don’t know how long this goes on, John on top of me in a bed that isn’t mine (oh, how I wish we were back at the flat, _our_ flat, because it is _ours_ and always will be, John’s and mine), but my lungs are beginning to burn and I feel distinctly light-headed. My heart is pounding in my chest, hard against my ribs and the bullet wound hurts, it still hurts sometimes even though it has healed well and thoroughly, but sometimes, and especially when my heartrate is up, I can still feel the hot lead and the screws that hold my rib together and the sutures that should have dissolved a month ago. Sometimes it hurts so much I can’t breathe, and sometimes my heart (I do have one, I always have no matter how hard I tried to will it away) hurts so much I can’t breathe, but neither of those things are why I can’t breathe now.

Now it is because John, _my John_ is on top of me and our cheeks are sticky with dried tears (mortifying) and his mouth is on mine, open and wet and tasting like scotch and gum and one of Mycroft’s Marlboro Lights (100, not King), and I’m grabbing at him, digging into his ribs harder than I’ve ever held onto anything in my life, and if I suffocate here I won’t care, so long as John never stops kissing me. I’ve almost died so many times, in so many ways, and it would be bliss to die here, in John’s arms.

But he does stop, and it’s hateful when his lips pull off mine with an obscene *smack.* Air rushes into my lungs and they stop burning, but John’s mouth is too far away and I want it back. I try to reach up but his (small, perfect) hands hold my head in place, against the pillow that’s scratchy and not mine. His breath is warm on my face; he isn’t far, but right now anything is too far.

“John,” my voice sounds breathy and high in my ears, over the sound of my pounding heart.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” John’s lips are brushing mine, and it’s _not enough_. Not now. Not after waiting for so long for something I always knew would never happen. Idiot. I’m an idiot. I say everyone else is an idiot, but I’m the idiot.

“No…please,” I try to strain my head up but John holds it down, forceful but still so immensely gentle, as if I’m made of blown sugar. Contradiction. My John is an endless contradiction. I pull at his jumper and practically sob (why would I make that sound, I never make that sound), but John is steadfast. My John. My conductor of light. My best friend. My everything.

“Calm down, love,” John presses his lips against mine, but it’s soft and they’re gone again before I can register that he’s used an endearment. Referring to me. I’ve never been called an endearment before (not by someone other than Mummy). “We have all night…”

“John…” His name is an invocation, a prayer, one that has filled me with both strength and despair. One that honestly, I’d never thought I’d say in his presence again, one I’d never thought I’d be able to say outside of moments alone, moments that would more than likely be my last. If I’d known this, known this could be, I would have fought my way back, even if Mycroft’s (rather embarrassing) ploy hadn’t worked.

***

_I stood on the small fire escape, the rusted metal creaking shifted from foot to foot. If it have given under my weight, it wouldn’t have mattered. All I had was that last moment with John, a moment that at least I’d be able to take to my death, when I thought maybe, *maybe* I’d seen despair in his eyes when I left._

_I was stupid to hope. Hope is the most dangerous of all the emotions._

_I’d barely been able to acknowledge John when the plane landed; Mycroft ushered me into his car almost immediately after I’d stepped foot on the tarmac. I wanted to see John; the sheer relief when I’d been called back had been overwhelming. I’d barely been able to stand as only one thought repeated itself through my head, “I can see John again. I can see John again. I can see John again.” Never before had my mind been so focused on something so singular. His face when I descended the steps was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen: he was staring in disbelief, in wonder, and I think, in relief. But it was short-lived; I turned to step towards him (and I think, I *think* he’d stepped towards me), when Mycroft, damn him, descended between us and I was led to his car._

_In his car an image was playing on the screen, an image of a man I hated for stealing everything from me (but couldn’t really hate, in that moment, because he’d allowed me to see John again after stealing him away), and then I was driven away to a sparse flat in London that wasn’t my home, a tracking device strapped to my ankle and Mycroft’s warning that it was for my own safety, rather than punishment._

_“Don’t leave the flat, Sherlock. This is for your own protection. For once, trust that I’m doing everything I can in your best interest.”_

_At least he’d left me a carton of cigarettes. Marlboro Lights (100s) from America. And a bottle of scotch. And some food (pointless). Then he’d left, admonishing me that the flat was being watched, and if I attempted to leave, I’d be moved someplace much less comfortable._

_“And John?” I’d asked._

_“He’s under surveillance,” Mycroft stated flatly. “I will do my best to see that no harm befalls him, little brother.”_

_“He could help.”_

_“I’m not sure that’s possible,” Mycroft had raised an eyebrow, then looked at his feet. “Eat, Sherlock. Take a shower, and try to get some rest.” He’d handed me a mobile, a disposable burner. “You can’t leave, but do let me know if you require anything.”_

_“Get out of my flat, Mycroft.”_

_He’d smiled then, a smile that looked sad at the time. “Please, Sherlock, for me. And for John.”_

_Then he left, and I was alone. The band around my ankle itched._

_I showered, and dressed in the pyjamas and dressing gown Anthea had brought in a duffle. I also had my laptop, but nothing held any interest. I poured some scotch and ate a single spring roll from the container on the tiny table in the abysmal kitchen. I swallowed two fingers of scotch, grimacing as it burned. John would never have deemed to have such cheap scotch in our flat. Of course, it wasn’t our flat anymore and the scotch I had (wherever I was) would be no bother to him. I don’t even know if Mary allowed him to have scotch in the flat; she preferred wines and vodka. I poured another two fingers, but couldn’t bring myself to swallow them and left the cheap glass with the cheap scotch on the cheap, particleboard table in the skimpy kitchen._

_The sitting room was just as bare; the rug coarse under my feet and it had a faint smell of mothballs. It was little more than a bedsit, very much like John’s before we found each other in the lab at St. Bart’s. The flat certainly wasn’t the worst place I’d ever stayed, but I wanted to be home. At least, I supposed, I wasn’t being forced to stay with Mycroft. I’d rather live in what amounted to next-to-poverty with an electronic tracker strapped around my ankle than be suffocated in Mycroft’s flat, even if it would smell like biscuits and the carpet wouldn’t be scratchy._

_The thing that made the flat a bit less hateful was the window that opened to a fire escape, one that was partially covered by a sheet of corrugated steel. I’d be able to go out without being seen; no doubt the flat had been chosen for this very purpose. I felt a bitter gratitude towards Mycroft for the foresight._

_The cigarette made me feel ill before I finished it despite being low-tar, but I quickly lit another. I hadn’t smoked since Christmas with Mycroft, and before that I hadn’t smoked since three days before Mary shot me. John had been very adamant that I was not to smoke until I’d been declared fully-healed. I wasn’t used to it and it seared down my throat and caught in my lungs. As I lit my third, the healed hole in my chest seared. I wanted nothing more than to hear John bark my name and for me to put it down, then feel him grab it out of my fingers and toss it onto the road below._

_I hadn’t been shipped off to Serbia to die, but I still didn’t know if I would ever see John again. It was almost worse, that I knew he was across the city somewhere, with someone who could kill him (and probably would, neither Mycroft nor I had any doubt of that) if she felt the whim, and I still didn’t know if I would ever be in his presence again. At least Serbia would have been final. And kept him safer, more than likely._

_I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the creak of metal frame, or the scuttling on the sill of the window, or the door opening and lock or any other things that surely must have happened before a (small, perfect) hand deftly plucked the lit cigarette from me._

_John coughed a bit as he inhaled, then looked blandly at the cigarette. “At least it’s a decent brand. That scotch was awful.” He took another drag. I had had to reach up to lean a bit on the metal sheeting lest my knees gave out under me. John was standing next to me on the creaking fire escape, calmly smoking a cigarette (his mouth pulled again, and it didn’t escape me that my mouth had been on the filter only moments before), as if he did that every day and the past week hadn’t just occurred. Maybe the past year. Or three years._

_His left ring finger was bare. The hole in my chest stabbed again. At least I thought it was the hole._

_“John.”_

_“That was by far the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Sherlock,” John took another drag. “And for a genius, you’ve done loads of spectacularly stupid things. Thank God for your brother.”_

_“Mycroft barely did a thing, the lazy sod.”_

_“I don’t know, as much as it pains me to say it, this was rather brilliant. Two birds: you, and try to flush Mary out.”_

_“What?” I whipped my head to look at John properly the first time. He was staring out beyond the steel (the fire escape was tiny, with me safely tucked behind the cover, he was out in the open), cigarette held up near his mouth. The dim light off the street lamps highlighted the bags under his eyes and the faint acne scars on his cheeks. He needed a shave and his clothes were wrinkled, as if they’d been picked off the floor and thrown on in haste. He was as beautiful as I’d ever seen him. And I had no idea what he was referring to. Sending me off to Serbia to die could hardly be deemed “brilliant.”_

_“The video,” John turned towards me for the first time, one eyebrow raised. When John raised his eyebrows, it almost seemed as if the whole of his forehead moved. “That was your brother. Moriarty’s dead, Sherlock, you watched him blow his brains out…wait,” John squinted. “Did you think he was really back?”_

_I felt my face burn at the incredulousness in John’s voice and looked at my feet. Idiot. IDIOT. “I suppose I was a bit preoccupied to really think the situation through.”_

_“I suppose so,” John’s voice softened a bit. “He had to explain it to me, I guess I assumed you’d have figured it out. He must have too.”_

_“Yes, well,” I didn’t look up at him, and instead reached for the pack of cigarettes sitting on the railing to light another._

_“Here, take this,” John held out the half-smoked cigarette in his hand. “I won’t finish it. Four is enough.”_

_“You don’t smoke,” is all I thought to say as I took it from him and brought it to my mouth. John’s mouth had been on it not a minute previously._

_“Not since Afghanistan,” he leaned lightly on the railing. “I figured tonight was as good as any.”_

_“I suppose.” My brain whirred with the new information provided by John. Obvious. Obviously Moriarty was still dead. Obvious it was a ploy on behalf of my brother to get me out of my “mission.” I was too preoccupied with the fact that I wasn’t going to my death, and that I would see John again, and then not knowing if I would ever be able to see John again, to objectively think things through. Sentiment really does obscure the facts. “Mycroft told you?”_

_“Mmmmhmmm, after he picked me up at the flat. I suppose he thought I’d like to know, I rang his phone about thirty times after you left the airport,” John chuckled darkly. “Don’t do that again, Sherlock, alright?”_

_“Alright,” I didn’t know what else John honestly expected me to say, whatever the facts._

_“Promise,” he breathed, then turned towards me. There was something in his eyes, plain to see, that I’d only seen flashes of in the past. Looks I’d been almost certain were figments of my imagination, born out of my own ridiculous pining. He looked sad and anxious, but there was something open in his face. “Promise me, Sherlock.” John’s eyes were intense, hard and soft at the same time, bluer than I’d ever seen them in the low light. Under the fear appeared to be a look of fondness (and maybe possession?), much like the one I’d seen during my embarrassing best man speech. “You’re going to run out of miracles. Promise you won’t do anything stupid like that again, not without me.”_

_“I promise.” What else was I to say, when John looked at me like that?_

_He gave a brief nod and his mouth pressed into a thin line. His eyes didn’t change as they watched me. “Finish that so we can go in. I’m worried two adult men will be too much for all this rusty metal. Besides, you shouldn’t be outside right now.”_

_I quickly took two more drags, sucking the cherry down to the filter. John watched, his face serious, but the apprehension was starting to dissipate. “Done.” I smashed the butt on the railing then flicked it behind the metal into the street._

_“Good. You shouldn’t smoke, you know.”_

_I couldn’t help it, the laugh that bubbled out of my mouth. It was a release of pent up relief and fear and unbridled joy that John was climbing in through the window of my safe house and that for a few moments, everything seemed as if it would be alright. He clumsily made it through, tripping a bit, and started to giggle as he turned around and reached out a hand to help me. John’s laugh. It would always be the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Beset by laughter myself, I reached out for the hand John was offering._

_It was like a spark, at least it was for me, and while I didn’t know if John felt a spark, exactly, whatever he felt made him stop laughing abruptly and tighten his fingers around mine. He practically pulled me through the small window. I tripped slightly on my long dressing gown, and his other hand came up to my bicep to steady me. He squeezed my hand as I straightened._

_“I mean it, Sherlock. I’m not kidding,” John’s voice was rough, and that look was still on his face, growing more intense by the second._

_I swallowed hard and nodded. I had never been good at sentiment, never knew what people were telegraphing, but a blind man would have seen what was on John’s face. I couldn’t be imagining it: still fear and anxiety and hope, and affection, but something else was there too, beginning to overpower all the other emotions on John’s face: want. It wasn’t a brief flash, hidden away after half a second like all the times I thought I’d seen it before. It was plain as day and I truly believed my knees would have given out under me if John hadn’t been holding me up._

_“Promise,” John’s hand left my arm and came up to my face. It was his left hand, and even though I knew it wasn’t there it was still a surprise to not feel the coolness of a ring against my cheek._

_“I promise, John,” the sound that came out of my mouth didn’t sound like my voice; I knew it was, but it sounded thin and more like a desperate sob, a plea for him to believe me because I did, and I would, I would do anything I could to try and hold this promise. John’s face screwed up for a brief moment then relaxed, and the look of complete affection that then washed over his features told me that my face must have been quite clear about what I was feeling as well._

_“Good,” John exhaled hard and twisted his fingers into mine. He squeezed. “Don’t forget it, Sherlock.” His face suddenly started moving closer and his thumb brushed tenderly over my cheekbone. “I’ll kill you myself if you pull shit like this again.”_

_I managed a nod as John’s face closed in, and when his mouth gently brushed mine, my knees finally did what they’d been threatening since John first (miraculously) appeared on the fire escape and gave out. It hurt when they hit the hard rug over the hard, tile floor, but it didn’t matter because John sank down with me._

_***_

“Sherlock,” John breathes, his lips descending again and capturing mine, then shifting and pressing over my nose and the corner of my eye and down my cheek. His mouth is hot and wet and my skin tingles and burns where it touches. “My Sherlock,” John leans his forehead against mine. The way he is saying my name now sounds as if it holds the same power for him as his does for me. He’s saying it reverently, desperately, as if it’s the only word in the word that holds any meaning. Or perhaps I’m projecting. But I can’t possibly be, because his lips press against mine again and his breath fills my mouth. I want to suck the air from his lungs, live on it and it alone. John is my oxygen.

I lift my hips and wrap my legs around the back of his, but the movement causes a sear of pain to jolt through my torso. No. Not now. Terribly inconvenient, that it should take this moment to let itself be known—again—when John is lying flush on top of me. My breath hisses through my teeth before I can stop it and I grimace. John’s face immediately crumples into concern and he pushes back so he can look down my body. _No._

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to press on it,” John must not be too sorry, because while he’s pulled back he doesn’t roll off me. That’s fine.

“You didn’t,” my voice is still breathy and high in my ears. I suppose I should be embarrassed. I squeeze my thighs around him.

“Does it still hurt often?” John’s face still has his concerned-John-look on it (I’ve always loved John’s concern, even though I protested more often than not). He removes one hand from the side of my head and shifts, reaching down to lift my thin t-shirt up over my chest to look. His jumper is both soft and scratchy against my bare belly where he has rucked my t-shirt free. His jacket (and my dressing gown) is lost somewhere out in the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to be very keen on moving a significant distance away. John has seen my bullet wound before, and in much worse states, as it was his care I solely depended on once I was deemed fit to be released from hospital. That doesn’t stop his face from crumpling again and the pained, “oh” that leaves his mouth when the shiny purple divot is exposed to him.

“Sometimes. Not much. It’s fine,” I shiver when John’s breath huffs over it. He gently strokes over the mark with his thumb, traces the healed incision lines that spread out from it.

“Mine does too, sometimes. I don’t know why, but sometimes it feels like getting shot again. Then as quickly as it came, it’s gone.”

“Yes,” I watch as John lowers his head and presses an open mouth kiss over the bullet wound. His tongue swirls over the healed flesh and goose pimples rise over my bared skin. It’s surreal, shivering while my body is burning hotter than it ever has.

John lets out a small sound not unlike a sob. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” His lips and tongue brush over the scar while he murmurs. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you. I’d do anything to go back and keep this from happening.”

Tentatively, I raise my hand and let it settle on John’s hair. It’s so soft and shining more silver than gold in the meek light of the bedside lamp. “I’m not.” John looks up at me, his eyes very sad. His chin is resting in the dip just under my last rib. “If she hadn’t—” my voice catches. I clear my throat and speak more forcefully. “If she hadn’t, then we probably wouldn’t be here.”

The sadness in John’s eyes deepens for a brief moment, but is replaced by adoration (I think it’s that, please let it be that) as he smiles softly. “I’m most sorry for that, Sherlock, I’m sorry I never saw.” Before I can answer he lowers his mouth again, sucking and licking obscenely at the skin, almost as if he’s trying to heal it further with his lips. He lifts his head again and blows lightly, his hot breath cool against the saliva he left on my skin. I shiver violently, my fingers tightening a bit against his skull.

John rests his chin against me again and looks up. “You’re hard,” he states plainly.

I only just realize in that moment that I am, desperately, achingly hard. My groin is pulsing and throbbing; every time John exhales I feel his chest brush against my erection through my thin pyjama bottoms. It’s maddening and delightful. I nod. “Are you?” I regret the obtuseness of the question and wince. Not my area.

“A bit,” John winks and the gleam in his eyes suddenly turns predatory. My gut clenches and my heart starts hammering harder against my ribs, if that was at all possible. John reaches for the hand on his head and squeezes it gently, pressing a kiss to my sternum, then another higher next to my left nipple. He briefly brushes his lips back and forth over the sparse hairs on my chest, then kisses up over my bunched t-shirt to my neck. He licks a wet stripe up my throat and his tongue is coarse against my skin. I’ve always hated the sense of touch; itchy and oppressive and overwhelming in a way that made it far too hard to think about anything. This, though, this overwhelming sense of John all over me, invading my senses, is blurring my mind is a way that is positively delightful. His hands and tongue, the scratchiness of his stubble and the wool of his jumper and rough brush of his jeans…I can’t grasp a single thought aside from _John_ and I find I can’t possibly care.

John straddles my belly and leans over me, forearms on the pillow around my head. He cocks one eyebrow (entire forehead moving) and rocks his hips down. I gasp when I feel the hardness in his jeans press against by bare belly. “Oh…”

John chuckles and kisses me, deeply, his perfect tongue diving back far enough to graze my soft palate. “What do you want, my darling?” He murmurs against my mouth. I wonder how many endearments John has in his (surely enormous) repertoire. “Anything, anything you want. Or don’t want.” Another wet kiss. John’s hands are working under my t-shirt to pull it over my head. “I’ll do anything you want, Sherlock. This mess isn’t over…tonight will have to last us a bit.”

I try desperately not to focus on John’s last statement, even though I know it’s entirely accurate. But he also indicated that this wouldn’t be it, merely a feast to hold us over during an inconvenient fast. The (vague, I admit) promise that sometime in the future this could (no, _will_ ) continue causes heat to bloom in my belly and spread out through my limbs. I raise my head to kiss John, the first kiss of the night I’ve initiated, soft but I hope filled with all of the love (I do love, I can love, I love John) I’m feeling. “You. I want you.” I pull back and pray to every deity I can that John understands what I’m saying. “I want you to have me.” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud, to say, _“I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me and mark me and make me ache tomorrow. I want to be able to feel it when you leave again and we have to pretend this never happened. I want you to tear me apart and split me in two and know you have someplace to come back to.”_ So I swallow and look directly into John’s eyes, his beautiful eyes, as intensely as I can and pray he’ll be able to read me the way he could before, before the entire mess that disrupted us so much. “Entirely.” I add.

John understands, he must, because his breath hitches and he closes his eyes and shudders slightly. “Sherlock.” He whispers as he opens his eyes to look at me again. “Are you sure?”

I nod. It’s all I can do with John’s gaze searing into mine. He makes a sound like a moan and dips to kiss me again. His mouth is particularly wet (is his mouth actually watering?) and he sucks on my tongue, hard. I never knew kissing could be so heavenly; heady and warm and making me feel more bliss than any injected solution ever made me feel. I want John to kiss me forever.

“We need,” John breathes into my mouth. “We need…” I stiffen when I realize what he’s talking about. _Fuck_. _FUCK_.

“I—I don’t—”

John must see the panic in my eyes because he takes my face in his hands and smiles warmly, his entire face stretching. “There’s something. I promise, all the messes we’ve gotten out of, we’ll figure this one out, too.” He kisses my forehead hard. “Don’t move, beautiful boy.”

He rolls off me and stumbles out of the bedroom to the tiny bathroom. The ridiculousness of the situation, that John has gone to search around a dingy bedsit for something suitable to use as anal lubricant causes my cheeks to flush in embarrassment. I look down my body and appear absolutely wrecked; my shirt is rucked over my chest, which is mottled and red and covered in drying saliva. The front of my pajama bottoms is tented and practically throbbing; I swear the material is actually shifting with my heartbeat and I reach down to gently brush my fingers over the swollen flesh. I don’t touch myself often—waste of time and energy—but I have, always thinking about John, and it’s never been as intense as it is now. I shudder and do it again, squeezing lightly.

“Hey!” John’s voice breaks through the room. “I’ll do that, thank you.” He climbs on the bed and over to straddle me again, brandishing a small bottle triumphantly. Mineral oil, obviously pilfered from a generic first aid box. He has removed his belt and jeans along the way and is in only black cotton pants. “Now…” John tosses it next to me on the bed, the grabs his jumper and the vest underneath and rips it over his head. Before I can get a look he reaches down and pulls my shirt over my head. I open my eyes and look at him as he tosses it aside.

John is beautiful. I’m sure there are idiots in the world who would call him ordinary, not think him anything but mundane, but in the low light, leaning over me, he shines like the sun. Sturdy and compact, he is muscular and fit, but his chest and belly are covered in the barest layer of soft flesh. The scar on his shoulder is dark and puckered, spreading out several centimeters from the center and more wrecked than I was expecting. It is not the neat little bullet wound like mine but it is beautiful, because it’s the reason he came home and we found each other. Blond hair spreads across his pectorals—he isn’t overly hairy, not by a long shot, but he has more than my sparse chest hair—and peaks down, then disappears before picking up again at his navel and dipping below the waist band of his pants. The bulge in the front is quite large, larger than I was expecting, and my mouth waters. He is, like this, the essence of _John_ , soft and hard and sturdy and _everything_ , everything a perfect human being could be.

My eyes feel prickly. “John,” my voice sounds like a sob. I lift my hands to touch him, but then feel painfully self-conscious and pull back. I’ve never touched anyone, and have no idea how to touch him. But John, wonderful, perfect John, takes my hands and places them directly on his chest, sighing as my thumbs brush lightly over his nipples.

“You can touch, Sherlock,” his eyes drift closed as I stroke over his chest tentatively, the hard muscles twitching. I run my fingertip over the puckered crater on his shoulder, then drift lower, down over his peaked nipple and lower over his stomach. Despite the soft flesh there, the muscle underneath is hard as rock and his hair grows coarser as I near the waist band of his pants.

I have no idea how to touch another penis, none, but John moans when my fingers reach the elastic band, nodding to encourage me. The weight of what is happening, where John and I finally are, together, hits me as I slowly reach below the band and pull, stretching it over his engorged flesh.

“Oh,” I exhale, positively shocked. I’m certainly familiar with male anatomy, being one myself, but am shocked at what I see. I’m aware that I would be considered well-endowed, not overly thick but quite long and reasonably hefty, but John’s erection is a surprise. It appears to be a definitive specimen of manhood; both thicker and longer than mine, flushed dark. Several large veins stand out against the stretched skin and his foreskin is fully pulled back from the glans, the slit weeping copiously. It is the epitome of male power and virility, and frankly, entirely unexpected, which is ridiculous. By now I should expect surprises from John. My mouth waters.

John cracks one eye open above me and grins foolishly. “Yeah?”

“Um…”

“Here,” he winks—John winks a lot when aroused which I’m finding I enjoy very much—and places my hand on his penis. It is hot under my fingers, throbbing, and a drop of pre-ejaculate appears at the slit as I stroke up, once. I rub my thumb over the sticky fluid, pressing into the spongy head, but John’s hips jerk and he grabs my wrist. “Ohhh, ok…” he exhales hard. “Maybe not. I’m gonna bust right here, love.”

“Not good?” I let go and immediately miss the feel of his penis in my hand.

“No, love. Very good, too good.”

“Oh,” I exhale. My thumb is wet where I touched the leaking glans of his penis; I suddenly have to taste it. John’s eyes follow my hand as I bring it to my mouth and suck on my thumb; the taste is mostly salty, a little bitter. The realization that I’m sucking John’s sexual secretions off my thumb sends a jolt of heat directly to my penis. I moan around my thumb. John’s mouth drops open.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” he pulls my thumb from my mouth and bends over me to kiss me hotly, wetly, tongue so far down my throat that for a moment it’s difficult to breath.

The kiss ends far too soon—they always do—when John stands up off the bed, disposing himself of his pants completely then crawling back onto the bed. My eyes are glued to his bobbing penis as he leans over me, hooking his thumbs into my pyjama pants and looking up at me. I nod and in one swift motion he tries to pull them off. My throbbing erection springs free and bounces up against my belly, the cool air of the room a shock on my hot flesh. I’ve never been so hard in my entire life, I’m sure of it. I’ve never felt the reason to be, before.

John isn’t paying attention to my body, struggling where my pyjama pants caught on the hateful band around my ankle. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock…your brother is an arsehole.” I don’t answer, waiting while he tries to pull the pant leg off. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? Because now John will see me bare, without my armour. I squeeze my eyes shut as John finally wrestles my leg free. A moment passes, and another.

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” I open my eyes to look at John, hoping against hope he likes what he sees (“not gay,” after all, although the accumulation of data thus far makes it clear he does find men somewhat attractive), and am shocked to see his hand over his mouth in disbelief.

“Not good?” I ask again, terrified.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighs, lowering his hand from his mouth and running it down my belly, stroking against the hair that cradles my penis. “You’re so fucking beautiful, I had no idea. You’re gorgeous, you’re like an angel…”

“Oh. I—John!” In a split second, John has leaned over my body and brought my throbbing penis to his mouth. Hot wetness envelopes me as John sucks me down to the base, swallowing around me and my mind blanks. Sparks shoot up my spine and I arch off the bed. John moans, humming once, then pulls up and sucks obscenely on my glans, pulling back to tongue the slit and press and open mouth kiss to the head of my cock. It feels like nothing I could explain and it so obscenely filthy I want to cry. John has my penis in his mouth. Please let this not be a dream.

“You’re so beautiful, Sherlock,” he kisses down my length, pausing to nuzzle my pubic hair and mouth at my scrotum. My brain has a difficult time keeping up with the sensation of his ministrations and watching him. “You’re so gorgeous, so fucking perfect…I—I have to…” John dips lower, spreading my thighs and bending them back, and I don’t recognize the sound that comes out of me (it must be me) when his tongue presses against my anus. Never, in my filthiest fantasies did I ever imagine this, John’s tongue swirling around and briefly in, his wet mouth sucking and laving much like he did to my scar earlier. I sob and look down my body; John’s blond head is just visible between my thighs and my penis pulses out pre-ejaculate against my belly as his tongue prods and pokes. My toes curl in the air.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John raises his head and bites gently on the inside of my thigh. “Even your arsehole is goddamn gorgeous.” My cheeks flush. It’s embarrassing, embarrassing but delightful, laying back on the small bed, knees over John’s shoulders as he eyes the core of me. I shiver as the saliva between my buttocks cools in the room air. “You sure this is what you want?” John presses a kiss to my bollocks and looks up at me. I nod, breath leaving my lungs in a gush. Please let this not be a dream. “Alright, hand me the oil, love.”

I scramble in the rumpled blankets beside me, grasping for the small bottle John brought from the loo. As I’m searching, I feel the very tip of his finger push inside me. It’s a surprise; I arch off the bed.

“Alright?”

I nod frantically and practically throw the bottle at him. He chuckles and shifts up to kiss my hip, pushing his finger in a bit further. I can feel myself twitch and clench around the intrusion. It’s filthy.

“You’ve never done this before, right?” John’s finger slides in a bit more.

“No…” I exhale hard. “Have you?”

“Yes,” John, surprisingly, doesn’t hesitate. “Not in a long time, but…I don’t want to hurt you. And it may, hurt a bit, when I use…um, more…”

“I don’t care, John. Please.” I want more. His finger feels odd inside me, but the filthy intimacy of it makes my head spin. I can’t possibly fathom what having more of him inside me will feel like, but I want it. I want all of him.

“Alright, love.” John wiggles his finger just a bit. “You’re so tight…so warm.” He rocks a bit more, then slips his finger out. I feel empty and bereft with it gone. “I’m going to use two, now, with the oil.”   I hear the cap click open and cool, slippery fingers rub lightly against my anus. “Relax, sweetheart (a new endearment and my heart soars), bear down a bit if you have to.” They push in and I arch again. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s still such a strange feeling. I feel invaded. John rests his head against the inside of my thigh and pushes until his knuckles are flush with my skin. My sphincter is fluttering around his fingers. “Still alright?”

“Yes,” I nod frantically, looking down my body at him.

“Good,” John smiles, then leans over to lightly kiss my shaft. “Now, I’m just going to---”

“OH!” His fingers curl inside me and I practically jump off the bed. They’re rubbing light circles around a spot inside me, and lights are flashing behind my eyelids. Never, ever did I imagine _that._

John practically guffaws, rocking and scissoring his fingers, then aiming for that same spot again. “Yeah, feels good, huh?”

“Oh, God, John…yes!” His fingers pull out of me again, but quickly three slide in, stretching me further. My erection jumps as he brushes my prostate again. I raise my head and look down. John is leaning against the inside of my thigh, watching my face with a soft smile on his. My gut clenches and for a moment I’m worried I’m going to climax right there, just from his fingers.

“Doesn’t hurt?”

“No! Please, please can you—”

“You want me to fuck you?” John pushes up a bit, looks me squarely in the eye as he point-blank states his intention. I feel my cheeks heat (even moreso) and nod.

“Please.” I couldn’t sound less dignified if I tried.

“Alright,” John’s eyes gleam with hunger and he pulls his fingers out of me while simultaneously leaning over to press an open-mouthed kiss to the head of my penis. He rocks back on his heels between my legs, his erection jutting obscenely out. I have no idea how it will fit inside me but I feel as if I don’t have it there right this instant, I’ll surely die. And that can’t possibly happen, because I’ve died far too many times in front of John.

“John…”

John pours some more mineral oil over the head of his engorged penis, hissing as he smooths it over the red flesh. He looks me in the eye. “I was tested, so you know. After I found out she was nothing but a liar…”

“Don’t care!”

“I know, idiot, but I do. I want you to know I’m clean. I’d never do that to you.”

“I know, John—please!”

“Alright, love,” John shifts so my thighs are rest over his, and angles to lean down over me. I feel him guide the head of his erection to my entrance. “It’s going to hurt, sweetheart. You stop me if you need to…” and with that, I feel the head of his penis pop inside me. He was right, it does hurt, and I grab his hand that’s pressed into the mattress at my side. Our eyes meet as I exhale hard, staring into the fathomless blue irises that are growing closer as John leans over and pushes slowly inside me.

“Ohhhh,” my breath leaves me slowly as he pushes in; it hurts, but it’s a good hurt. Truly. The burn is not unlike stretching an overused muscle: painful, but deeply satisfying. He slides in easily with the oil, my body simultaneously fighting the intrusion and clenching to pull him in deeper.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John exhales hard as his slides deeper, eyes still locked on mine. When he’s buried to the hilt, his scrotum pressed against my backside, his face is close enough that he can lift his head and press his lips against my forehead. It’s perhaps the most tender kiss I’ve ever felt in my entire life. “Alright?” He holds still for a moment, gives me a minute to decide I don’t like it.

“Yes,” I think I can feel his pulse inside me. Or perhaps that’s my pulse. Either way I don’t care. I reach down between our bodies and feel under my scrotum; my fingertips brush John’s pubic hair and the base of his shaft, sliding through the slippery fluid around the edge of my obscenely stretched hole. “John,” I wrap my other arm around his neck. “Your penis is inside me.”

John laughs, a breathless, joyful laugh. “Yeah,” he sounds strangely choked, then surges forward to kiss me. His tongue forces its way inside my mouth as he starts to rock, just slightly as first, and the burn intensifies for a few moments until my entire body sparks up again the way it had when he cleverly curled his fingers. I gasp into his mouth and wrap my thighs around his waist; John tightens his grip around my shoulders and it appears as if a damn has broken loose, because his hips begin to surge forward against me.

“Oh, fuck!” I twist and arch in his arms, because the head of his penis must be gliding over my prostate; between that, the delightful burn of my sphincter stretched around him, and the not-nearly-enough friction on my penis trapped between our bodies, I feel as though I will die. “John!”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John showers my face in wet, hot kisses, licking at my eyelids and cheeks and chin. I can barely hear him over the rush of blood in my ears. “You feel so fucking good, so good…you’re so tight, so fucking tight—oh God!” I purposely clench myself around him and he jerks, pushing himself up so he can lean on one arm. His other hand snakes between our bodies and wraps around my leaking penis. “Sherlock,” John’s forehead drops to mine. We’re sharing what air there is in the scant space between us, breathing into one another’s lungs. “I’m…you have to…”

“Ohhh,” I moan as his hand tightens around me, hips slapping against my thighs. I know what he means; he wants me to climax before him. It makes me sad that this will be over far too quickly, but I suppose that was going to happen. “Yes…please John…” I try to rock my hips back at his, more stars bursting behind my eyes. His back is slippery with sweat under my hands.

“Sh-shit, Sherlock,” John stutters against my cheek. His breath is hot and ragged. He’s losing the rhythm of both his hands and hips, but he squeezes tight once more and before I realize what’s happening my climax overtakes me. I never knew orgasms could be so powerful as my body pulses and contracts, the air bursting from my lungs and my back arching off the bed against John. It’s strange and wonderful, feeling my body clench around John as he continues to move inside me. Sticky fluid shoots up over my belly and chest as John jerks his hand around my erection, and my eyes fly open just as he slams into me on last time, burying his face in my shoulder. Through the convulsions I feel a burst of hot wetness, then another, and another, and the thought of John ejaculating inside of me sends another wave of shivers through me.

Then it’s over, far too soon, and I sink back into the bed, John slumping over me. His hips are still rocking slightly and the hand trapped between our bodies is still gently squeezing my fading erection. My limbs feel like jelly but I do my best to keep John held against me.

“Oh my God,” John breathes against my neck after a few moments, when his shivering has stopped. “Oh my fucking God…” He lets go of my penis and works his hand around my back. It’s sticky and wet.

“Good?” I don’t know what to say.

“Oh. My. God.”

“I d-don’t know what that means, John.”

“That means good. Amazing. Spectacular.” He turns his face and presses a wet kiss to my jaw. “Oh, my God, Sherlock.” He kisses me again. “Are you alright? Shit…” John presses his hands into the mattress to push himself up. “Let me—”

“No!” I tighten my limbs around John. I don’t want him to pull away, not yet. I’m not ready for this moment to be over, because when it is we will go back to the danger and uncertainty that’s shaped our lives for so long. John will go back to his murderous wife and I will be alone in this bedsit with my ankle monitor and a burner mobile surely only Mycroft will have access to.

“Sherlock, we’re a mess. And I should check you…”

“No, please. John.” I bury my face in his sweaty neck. “Please. Just a few more minutes.”

“Alright,” John acquiesces. He shifts up just a bit to kiss my cheek. His softening penis jostles inside me and it hurts a bit. It’s wonderful.

We lay together for several long minutes, and slowly our heartrates slow. I raise my hand to trace around the ruined flesh on John’s shoulder blade. It’s much more ragged than the scar on his front. It’s fascinating. I both simultaneously love and hate the bullet that pierced his flesh, turned his life upside and ended whatever trajectory it was on. But it brought John to me.

“I can’t feel it, you know,” John breathes into my neck. “Not there. Too much scar tissue.”

I hook my chin over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen it so close.”

“I know. I’m sorry it took so long.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard. “I—I’m in love with you, John.” I force the words out. They sound stilted and robotic in my voice. Words I’d never thought I’d say, to a man I’d never imagined to possess in this way. I almost said it on the tarmac, and thinking I’d missed my chance was one of the worst feelings I’d ever had, in a life rife with terrible feelings.

John inhales sharply against my skin, and for a moment I wonder if maybe expressing myself so plainly was a mistake. But he pushes himself up on his elbows to look down on me and his face is full of so much tenderness I almost can’t believe it’s for me. He grimaces and blinks hard several times, then smiles a tight smile and kisses me gently.

“I know, Sherlock,” John whispers against my mouth. His smile turns bright (John’s smile is like the sun). “I ‘Sherlock is a girl’s name’ you, too.”

For a brief moment I wonder if I should be angry, but I couldn’t possibly be angry at John, not now. Maybe not ever. It’s still embarrassing though, how ridiculous and transparent that moment was, the moment I thought would be my last with John. Feeling his wife’s cold eyes on me, not even disguising the victory. I feel my cheeks burn for possibly the hundredth time since John appeared on the fire escape. “John…”

John chuckles and kisses me again. “You ridiculous, brilliant thing.” He reaches up with his clean hand and takes ahold of my chin. “I love you, too, Sherlock. So much. Since that very first day. And I’m so sorry this took so long. Also…” He cocks an eye. “I’m _very_ sorry it took me so long to learn your name is William. _William._ ”

I scrunch my face. I hate that name. “It’s awful.”

“William,” John brushes his nose back and forth against mine. “Especially since you found out about ‘Hamish’ four years ago.”

“You could have taken the initiative to acquire my birth certificate.”

“That’s not normal, Sherlock! Or maybe I should call you ‘Billy?’”

“No!”

“’Billy’ Holmes.” John chuckles.

“John Watson, I will—” but John cuts me off with a kiss, warm and wet and sweet. When he pulls pack, he looks at me with such love that I fear my heart may sear out of my chest. Either that, or my healed bullet wound has chosen this moment to remind me of itself and the real world, outside of this bed.

“What do we do now, John?”

“I don’t know…” John lets his forehead drop to mine. “Can I just stay here?”

“Were I wish that was possible.” I pull him down to me so I can hold him, for a bit longer. “You have to go home.”

“Sherlock, that flat isn’t ‘home.’” John kisses my shoulder.

“This isn’t home, either.”

“No, but you’re here, so it’s much closer to home.” He relaxes into me. “Just a few more moments?”

“Yes. Please.” I wrap my arms around his back again, try to memorize the feel of him against me, the stickiness of my ejaculate drying on my chest and his between my buttocks. The dull ache in my core and the stubble burn on my face. John’s smell, post-coitus. The joyous searing in my chest. “This will have to last us awhile.”

“Mmmm.” John sighs into my neck. “The game is back on, eh?”

“Always, John.”

I try to hold him hard enough to make up for all the time we’ve missed, and to make up for the long days ahead of us before we can go home.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't bring myself to have Sherlock say "cock" or "prick" or any other euphemism for a pork sword. Also, I am not Mark Gatiss, so while I couldn't have Sherlock bring himself to say something so crude as "cock," I also can't say something like, "flesh sword." 
> 
> Sherlock thinks in the terms he learned in secondary school anatomy.


End file.
